The Betting Game
by ShinigamiForever
Summary: The fate of the world depends on... betting (yes, that sounds cheesy. My summaries suck) You can do three things: Bet, counter bet, and carry out a bet. The not-so-bad group are the Guardians, and the not-so-good are the Denoument. Chp 3 is up.
1. UD 1: A Whiff of Smoke

Upper Deck 1: "A Whiff of Smoke"

Prologue to The Betting Game

By: ShinigamiForever

A/N: Um, yeah, new series. Sorry! I know I have way too many going on. Anyway, this is the group of stories that are half of the prologues to The Betting Game. The second half is the Lower Deck. This is a story very loosely based on X/1999. It's kind of twisted, and seems to have way too much on cigarettes and the like. But I think this is kind of a teaser, so if anybody is interested, I might just go on. 

===

He had already finished off a box of cigarettes and was starting on a pack.

The room had a white haze lingering over the air, pungent and wistful to his nose. His hand rested lightly on his face, cigarette poised delicately in between white fingers, hesitant. They did not shake, just as he did not shake. 

He had on a pensive expression on his face, eyes vacantly focused on a blank spot on the wall, just beyond her head. He wore a turtleneck and dark slacks, feet on the floor, black shoes. The cigarette burned itself out in his hand, ash forming a stack that balanced tentatively, almost nervously, on the stub. He smeared out the red glow of heat in the porcelain ash tray that lay on the table beside him. In actuality, most of the cigarettes had not been touched by his lips. He just liked the feel, the scent, and the smoke of them. Out of all of the wrapped up cylinders, he had only taken a couple drags. He wore the feel of an aristocrat, polished and refined.

His companion looked at him with vague indifference, a fair blonde-haired girl of 16. She had a lithe and slender build, tapping the floor with an impatient foot as her head was resting on one propped up hand. Her eyes flitted around the room, pausing momentarily on objects, like a butterfly. But her body was still and controlled, surrounded by a faint cloud of smoke. With a small curve of her lips, she displayed no emotions, masked and blankly mirror-like. Her neck was long, almost too long, but it looked natural on her, a low-cut and flat topped shirt revealing the tops of her shoulders. Her hair flicked in the light air. She had the aura of a dancer, almost precariously floating atop eggshells.

He slid another small cigarette from the box, watching his own hands as they performed their perfunctory task. He reached for the lighter on the side table, languid and relaxed. With deft movements the sound of the lighter clicking could be heard, a flame leaping up, iridescent and quivering, against the white edge of the wrapped paper. He removed the hand holding the flame, then placed the cigarette in his mouth, almost hiding the rest of his lower face.

The blonde rustled, leaning back against her armchair, facing the armchair of the young man. He watched her from behind his miasma of smoke, black eyes flashing orbs of dancing light. She spoke up first, voice soft and silky like milk caramel. "You know, smoking is bad for you." He regarded her with quiet amusement, removing the cigarette from his mouth and tapping it against the ash tray. A flick of gray ash flew downwards, the red glow of embers leaping up for a second.

"I believe that's the third time you've told me," he replied before taking in a breath of smoke and letting it out again. She chuckled, a low and disconcerting sound.

"It's true," she said, cool pale fingers playing with strands of her pale golden hair. Her eyes were a misty cerulean that seemed to cover a metallic interior. She watched the gray-white cloud spread off into the emptiness of the room. They sat in silence, both comfortable and awkward, inhaling the sweet bitter scent. The blond watched as he leaned over to tap his cigarette again, his small black ponytail flicking sideways with his turn. She watched him, silent as ever. But the impending press of silence was more than she could bear, so her comment was actually a blurt of her thoughts, even if it came out sarcastic and graceful as ever.

"What do you plan on doing now?"

He laughed softly, taking another puff of smoke, gazing at its ascent, before looking at her intently, a flash of brilliant black in his face. "Oh," he said, gesturing grandly around him, "I think I'll destroy the world."

A/N: Yes, very short. Beyond belief. Oh well. 


	2. UD 2: The Fog Comes On Little Cat Feet

Upper Deck 2: The Fog Comes On Little Cat Feet  
Part of: The Betting Game  
By: ShinigamiForever  
  
A/N: Yeah, continuing for my own pleasure and the hope that _someone_ will take up the interest and read. (fat chance) Anyway, for anyone out there, enjoy.  
  
===  
  
The fog comes  
on little cat feet  
It sits looking   
over harbor and city  
on silent haunches  
then moves on.  
  
-"Fog"  
Carl Sandburg  
  
===  
  
He was perched on the apartment balcony, elbow placed on the railing, supporting his chin, the other simply resting on the metal poles. His platinum blonde hair fell over his shoulders, swaying in the gentle evening wind. In a loose white shirt and tight jeans, he was relaxed and tense at the same time, elegant and graceful. The sliding glass door showed that the lights were on in his apartment, shining a soft glow on his back. The interior looked soothing and refined, full of curves and open spaces.  
  
The swish of the traffic below was lulling and hypnotic, a break of honking horns momentarily bursting out in fury. His eyes traveled slowly, aimlessly over the horizontal and vertical landscape of the city. A cloud of misty fog rolled across and between towers of buildings, softening the harsh glare of light. The light gray city lights shone on his face as he watched, serene.  
  
He had a dreamer's expression, pondering and oblivious, lost in his own fabricated stairway into unconsciousness. Wayward fleeting thoughts seemed to flit around him, a protective shield of mental fireflies. His fingers on his resting hand played with a light blue ribbon the color of his eyes, twisting it around his palm, tying and untying knots. The piece of fabric slid in and out of his fingers, snaking around his wrist in a circular motion.  
  
In mid-air, a butterfly materialized, iridescent and silvery in the night air. With delicate outspreading wings it floated in a topsy-turvy fashion, gliding on a gentle roll of fog and sparkles towards the young man. He smiled, still watching the blinking skyline of the city.  
  
The butterfly fluttered onto his shoulder, wings opening and closing to an unheard rhythm. He turned his head to look at it, lowering his propped hand for the butterfly to land on his arm. "Yes?' he asked, watching the butterfly change its rainbow lights. It fluttered some more, brightening until it produced its own light, then flew up to land on his skin. A slight brush of wings sent a shiver down his spine. The butterfly was cool to the touch, a soft sweeping of silk and satin. He leaned on his other hand, still holding the blue ribbon.  
  
For a moment, the air around them became heavy and misty like, dizzying the air, the butterfly sending a message to his head. Frozen in motion, the traffic paused, silence heavy and electric around them. The butterfly and his chest were the only moving objects, his breathing forming a slow cycle of rise and fall. His lidded eyes absorbed the mental images his messenger gave him.  
  
But the moment was soon gone.  
  
He laughed, shooing away the butterfly with a flick of his wrist. It flew away and disappeared with an irate flap. The young man took the ribbon from his fingers and slid it under his hair. Pausing, he gazed again at the sea of lights in the city horizon, the smile hovering on his lips. "So," he whispered, tying the ribbon in a knot so that his hair was pulled back into a silver ponytail. The word floated past him, forming a small cloud of fog in the air before dissipating.   
  
"It has begun."  
  
With that, he turned and slid open the glass doors, closing them silently behind him. As he pulled the binds shut, the fog surrounding the city cleared slowly, withdrawing into an empty void. After a few minutes, a small butterfly landed on the metal railing, flapping its shining wings.  
  
~Owari, or maybe Tsuzuku...~  
  
A/N: Upper Deck is the introduction of the not-so-good characters in The Betting Game. Their group is called Denouement, which means ending. The not-so-bad characters are the Guardians.   
  
Denouement includes:  
Wufei  
Heero  
Quatre  
Zechs  
Lady Une  
Dorothy  
Mariemaia  
  
Guardians include:  
Duo  
Trowa  
Sally  
Hilde  
Relena  
Trieze  
Noin 


	3. UD 3: Sheering To Glissandi

Sheering TO Glissandi  
Part of: The Upper Deck  
By: ShinigamiForever  
  
A/N: Ah, finally got past my 2-part line! Jeez, I'm almost running dry or something.  
  
===  
This is the rain on Mozart's grave,  
Sheering to glissandi.  
Where do you little lie, exhausted, whole,  
and wholly done?  
Sweet Amadeus,  
When I sip my bourbon,  
Weaving myself twoward pure abstraction-  
The recollection  
of emotion without the tired events,  
I'd trade my part in this to bear your song...  
  
- excerpt of "Lives of The Saints"  
Jon Anderson  
  
===  
  
He swilred the wine in his cup, eyeing it almost suspicuously. The liquid crested and dipped, a million faceted jewels. It was a spring color, yellow in a cool sense, not warm and mellow. His aquamarine eyes were transparent and blank, a hint of aristocratic boredom and amusement.  
  
His companion was almost his opposite, dark where he was fair, cold where he seemed warm, lethal where he looked harmless. While he possessed fair, sun splashed golden hair and pink kissed pale skin, his companion had brown chocolate colored hair and obscure azure-edged Prussian eyes. His light blue shirt and khakis contradicted sharply with the other's black suit and light grey trenchcoat. One seemed almost domestic, tame, doused with light. Another had feral grace, hiding his fascinating eyes behind small circular sunglasses that seemed to teeter off his nose, adding a balance to his features.   
  
"You should really drink some of that wine," the latter said, lounging in a careless position that seemed to speak of hidden springs. The former smiled, a slow spreading curve of the lips. In the distance, the sound of piano music floated tentatively over the atmosphere, a simple yet elegant tune that spoke of beauty.  
  
"Do you ever wonder, Heero," the blond said, dipping his finger meaningfully into his wine, "what the composer thought when he wrote that piece? Have youe ver thought, 'Listen, listen to that sentimental genius, that work which would be the magnum opus of us all, but just a fleeting stepping stone to the composer!'" His eyes were cast in a faraway dreamy expression, fixed on the distant fantasies of dead composers. He smiled again, a brash, daunting smile.  
  
His companion Heero laughed, a rich deep sound full of sweet dark honey and melted caramel. "You think too much, Quatre," he answered, taking a small sip from his own glass. The movement was a subtle rearranging of limbs. Quatre laughed too, sliding a finger absently along the contours of the crystal cup he held.  
  
"Do I,' he murmured rhetorically, leaning against a slender hand, eyelids fluttering slightly down. Without warning, Heero snatched the blond's free hand and wrenched it around, exposing a pale wrist. Nonchalant, Quatre continued to swirl his glass, a knowing look on his lidded eyes.  
  
A little tremor rose up from his arm, caused by a flash of power from Heero's fingers. He knew what the Japanese was looking for. He heard a small sigh from his companion, and then the gradual release of his hand. "You joined them," Heero siad, almost sad, regret lacing his voice. Quatre looked up, surprised at the emotion in his friend's voice. Withdrawing his hand, he peered at the small symbol glowing on his wrist and drew his fingers lightly across the character, wiping its light away. Pulling down his sleeve, he watched his companion take another sip of his wine.  
  
"I didn't know it meant anything to- uh..." he stopped, unsure of how to answer. Heero suddenly smiled, the same arrogant infuriating smile that sickened Quatre.  
  
"Oh, it doesn't really," he answered breezily. Quatre felt a squeezing of his chest, a tightening that didn't hurt but stung. He sent an electrical spark towards Heero, who easily blocked with a shield. The Japanese gave Quatre a laughing glance. He knew there was no malice intended.  
  
" I hate it when you lie."  
  
"You must hate me often."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
Heero laughed, showing off sparkling white teeth, then leaned in closely, breathing warm air into his companion's ear. "'I take you as I take the moon rising. Darkness, black moth the lights burn up in.'" Remember that poem?" He leaned away, slnging an elbow over his chair.  
  
"You never change, do you, my dear assassin?" Quatre asked, half in earnest, half teasing.  
  
"Never. Now," Heero raised his glass, "be a good boy and drink your wine." The toasted, their crystal glasses clinking lightly together. When the bill came, they split it, then got up and left, leaving an air of vague uncomfort behind them.  
  
~ To be continued, maybe....~ 


End file.
